


Full Circle

by kaistrex (weishen), klimt



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anthropomorphism - Freeform, Canon-Typical Violence, Fox Stiles, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapped Derek, Kidnapped Stiles, Kidnapping, M/M, Magic, POV Stiles, Stilinski Family Feels, Warning: Kate Argent, full shift derek, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-08 13:06:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11082210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weishen/pseuds/kaistrex, https://archiveofourown.org/users/klimt/pseuds/klimt
Summary: Stiles wakes face to face with the muzzle of a black wolf and he does the only thing any sane person would do in such a situation: he screams.A hand – a furry, claw-tipped but human-shaped hand – comes up to cover his mouth. He follows it with his eyes to a furry wrist disappearing into the sleeve of a leather jacket, up to broad shoulders and to the head of the wolf looming over him sprouting from the collar of a Henley.A wolf. Wearing clothes.Stiles sags backwards with relief. It’s okay. He’s just dreaming.–All Stiles had wanted to do was warn a newly-returned-to-town Derek Hale that some unsavoury-looking men had put a target on his back. Instead, he gets kidnapped, turned into some sort of human-fox hybrid by a spell gone wrong and, oh yeah, werewolves are a thing.This is all Scott’s fault.





	Full Circle

**Author's Note:**

> For the 2017 Sterek Reversebang.
> 
> I was lucky enough to get my first choice of art so a big thank you goes out to [@emissarystiIes](https://twitter.com/emissarystiies) for inspiring this story, and also for their input which steered this in a direction leaps and bounds better than my original premise.
> 
> Also, 500 thank yous to my beta [smart-bit](http://smart-bit.tumblr.com) who put up with my constant texts of ‘It’s almost finished, it’s almost finished, _it’s almost finished I promise_ ’ and went above and beyond to make this the best it could be. Strong power thank you.

                 

 Art by [@emissarystiIes](https://twitter.com/emissarystiies)

Art also posted on [tumblr](http://kaistrex.tumblr.com/post/161391444569/full-circle-art-by-emissarystiies-story-by)

 

Eight o’clock on a Saturday morning is way too fucking early for Stiles to be awake, let alone driving his Jeep.

Scott isn’t faring much better in the passenger seat, eyes drifting shut and snapping open every few seconds, but Stiles feels no remorse in pointing an accusatory finger at him and proclaiming, “This. Is all your fault.”

Scott whines. “Deaton’s the one who put me on this shift.”

Stiles is hearing none of it. “Your fault,” he repeats as he turns into the parking lot of Deaton’s veterinary clinic and comes to a stop outside.

They'd spent the night before passing the controller back and forth for matches in Battlefield and watching the latest horror additions to Netflix like they did every Friday night. Except this week, Scott had landed himself the Saturday morning shift after expressing the desire for more responsibilities to his boss. Stiles’ vehemence is entirely justified.

Deaton hasn’t arrived yet so Scott unlocks the door and Stiles trails in after him, reasoning that maybe cuddling a puppy or two will help make up for his lost hours of sleep.

Scott lifts the flap of the front desk and flips on the lights as Stiles follows him through to the back room. They take a second to flicker to life with a buzz, the shiny, silver examination table reflecting the glare into Stiles’ eyes. He looks away and spots a door of one of the many cabinets lining the walls is ajar so he hooks his finger in for a closer peek inside. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Deaton open them and he distinctly remembers his curiosity on previous occasions being met with Deaton’s frustratingly vague non-answers.

The shelves inside are lined with jars full of what look like herbs and... grey dust? They clink and rattle as he runs his fingers over them, landing on one containing a leafy twig which he picks up for a closer look. He’s barely gotten it out of the cabinet before it slips from his hand and a heartstopping second of juggling isn’t enough to catch it before it shatters on the floor.

“ _Shit!_ ” Stiles breathes while Scott hisses, “ _Stiles!_ ” ready with a reprimand, but the bell over the front door jingles and he’s cut short. They share a look that lasts the length of a heartbeat and then Stiles dives for the floor, snagging up the sprig of – mistletoe? – and shoving it into the pocket of his jeans while Scott thrusts the broken glass under the cabinet with a scrape of his foot.

Deaton enters the back room with only a second to spare and Stiles tries to lean nonchalantly against the examination table – but fails spectacularly as his elbow misses the mark and he almost crashes into the floor headfirst.

“Mr. Stilinski,” Deaton greets, dry and unsurprised, though Stiles doesn’t think he’s ever heard him sound anything but.

“Yoooo!” he replies, complete with awkward finger guns.

Deaton’s face remains impassive and as soon as his back is turned, Scott jabs his finger at the door mouthing _Go!_

“Right. Well. I’ll see you tomorrow, buddy!” He doesn’t wait for a farewell in return.

As he shuts the flap of the front desk behind him, he hears Deaton ask Scott, “Was this cabinet open when you arrived this morning?”

Stiles hightails it out the door.

The weak morning sun that had been shining when they’d left Scott’s has gone behind the clouds, turning the air crisp, and Stiles tries not to shiver as he jogs across the lot to his Jeep and swings inside.

He should get home and do some studying for his rapidly approaching finals, and if his dad asks, he’ll tell him that's exactly what he did. In reality, he has no plans beyond crawling under the covers and passing out ‘til sundown.

A glance at his fuel gauge reminds him he needs to make a stop for gas on his way home, and he has a moment of indecision: use the station he passes everyday or drive across town to the one with an adjoining Starbucks? His choice is made for him when he remembers the unspent twenty in his wallet that his dad left on the counter for him last night to supply snacks for him and Scott – snacks Scott’s mom had already provided.

Traffic is light because of the early hour, and when he reaches the gas station there are only two other cars by the pumps. The first one is forgotten instantly as he stares openmouthed at the second, a criminally sleek and shiny black Camaro he's never seen around town before.

He continues to stare as he fills up, fingers twitching with the desire to drape himself over the hood like some sort of bikini model, and it takes him three attempts to hang up the hose with his eyes occupied. He wouldn’t give up his Jeep for anything but he wouldn’t say no to taking that beauty for a spin.

His gaze sticks to it as he walks by, head turning to admire it from every angle, and he doesn't notice the figure in his path until it's too late. Stiles bounces back from the force of the collision with a solidly-muscled chest, his arms windmilling as he tries to catch his balance.

“Sorry, du–” Stiles’ reflex apology dies on his tongue as he stares at the face of the man before him with artistically-maintained stubble, chiselled cheekbones and an impressive raised brow. The stubble is a new addition since he saw him last, and though he’s having trouble reconciling it with his memory of lingering baby fat, the identity is unmistakeable.

“Derek?” he finishes instead, but the man is already striding away. Stiles can’t tell if his pace quickens at the recognition or if he was already in a hurry. Either way, the retreating back does nothing to disrupt the memories that seeing his face has conjured of a blanket clutched around trembling shoulders. He sees soot-stained cheeks marked by the clear paths of silent tears, and vacant eyes staring at a blank wall in the Sheriff's Station.

That was the only interaction they ever shared and was the last night Stiles saw him after Derek's entire family burned alive and he was shipped off to who knows where. Stiles had been too young to really remember the half hour he'd sat with the silent boy in the Sheriff's Station, until a few years later when the neighbourhood kids took their fun riding out to the old shell of the house in the woods.

He'd taken one look at the blackened remains and been overwhelmed by the memory of the thick, acrid burning in his nostrils like he was sat next to Derek on that bench all over again, rubbing a hand up and down his back like it would make everything better. How could he ever have forgotten?

He had grabbed Scott by the sleeve, feet rooted, and begged to turn back. Scott, being the best friend he always was, didn't ask, just took Stiles’ bike from his numb fingers and wheeled it all the way back to town as Stiles trailed silently beside him.

Stiles’ feet carry him into the store with similar distraction even as his head stays turned, watching Derek cut a path straight, unsurprisingly, to the Camaro.

Despite the brief interaction, he can’t deny it was nice to see an expression on Derek's face, even if it was a scowl.

It’s only as he’s watching him climb into his car that he realises his isn’t the only eye Derek has caught.

Two men are standing by the window in front of the racks of magazines, one in a worn, grungy baseball cap and the other with a crew cut, both with a week's worth of stubble like they've been on the road for awhile. They have the look of just-passing-through, but if the way they're watching Derek is any indication, they've found themselves a reason to stick around.

Stiles pretends to be interested in the candy bar selection as Baseball Cap puts a phone to his ear, and he strains to catch his murmured words.

“On his way. Get ready to give him his warm welcome.”

Somehow, Stiles doesn’t think he’s talking about a surprise party. He wonders how many of these people might be around and if they followed Derek from wherever he came back from. Whatever the reason, their arrivals can't be coincidences and he’s sure nothing good can come of it. He suffers only a moment of indecision, his choice made for him by the almost-certain possibility that Derek has no idea he’s being followed.

He snatches something off the shelf without looking, resisting the urge to glance over his shoulder every second to check Derek hasn’t driven off already. The Camaro is just making a left out of the gas station as Stiles steps out of the store with an attempt at a nonchalant pace, not sure how much attention the two men inside might be paying him.

He tosses his purchase onto the passenger seat and wrestles with his seatbelt one-handed in his haste to start the Jeep. By the time he pulls out onto the street, he can still make out Derek’s car not far ahead, just accelerating as the light he’d been stopped at turns green. Stiles keeps his distance as he follows him across town and it’s only as they get toward the fringes that he realises with a jolt where he must be heading.

He slows, not sure if it's a good idea to intrude or even if he wants to see the house again, but he can’t get the way the guy on the phone had said _warm welcome_ out of his head. It sends a shudder through him that he can't ignore and though it strengthens his resolve, he still turns onto the track leading to the Hale house with hesitance.

Now, there can be no question that Derek knows he's being followed, and Stiles can't help but gulp; he hadn’t looked too friendly back at the gas station.

The trees overhanging the trail eventually open up and the façade of the house comes into view, giving the illusion of a habitable structure that’s no more than blackened beams and rubble on the other side.

Derek’s car pulls to a stop out front and when he gets out he immediately turns to face Stiles trundling up the driveway behind him, arms crossed, brow stern. His feet are planted square with his shoulders in a solid wall of intimidation.

Stiles tries to reconcile this man carved from stone with the boy he once met, but Derek’s glower is about to melt a hole through his windshield if he makes him wait a second longer to offer an explanation. He kills the ignition and trips out of his Jeep, but Derek’s stance doesn’t falter, even for exasperation.

“This is private property.”

“Sorry, dude,” Stiles begins, but as he steps closer, Derek’s arms drop to his sides, hands curling into fists. He freezes, certain it’s a subtle, perhaps even unconscious, warning not to go any further.

“Why are you following me?”

“I saw you at the gas station–”

“I know.”

Stiles winces and lifts a hand to the back of his neck. He should be used to making such an impression. “Look, I saw some guys there watching you and I think they’re planning to...” He pauses, not sure how to explain the danger-vibe the men had been giving off in a way that Derek would believe. In the end, he doesn't have to.

Something whistles through the air, a noise that he’d later place to the sound of an arrow, coupled with a _smash_ and flash of blinding white light. Stiles throws up his hands too late to shield his eyes and stumbles as his instincts tell him to both get down and get away. He lands heavily on the dirt track beneath his feet, skin prickling all over like the spread of a burning rash up his legs, across his face and down his spine. There's something sharp in his mouth and his eyes are streaming from the thick smoke that billows all around, clogging his throat as he gasps for breath.

“Where the hell did he come from?” a man is shouting but with the dense smoke, Stiles can’t tell from where.

A figure looms out of the dissipating fog above him, features indistinct through his blurred vision, and something – hands – twist in the collar of his jacket and jerk his torso off the dirt. He scrabbles at the person's wrists for something to hold onto amidst the swirling in his head, but there's a hiss of pain and the hands let go. He drops back down with a _thud_.

“What happened? Why didn't it work?” someone is demanding above him, a woman this time. Her voice is authority and it silences the panicked chirping of the man outside the smoke.

So much for warning Derek. His dad is _not_ going to be happy.

There’s a whimper close by, like that of a kicked dog, but when Stiles tries to turn his head to the sound, the world spins and he’s pulled under into darkness.

 

 

He wakes face to face with the muzzle of a black wolf and he does the only thing any sane person would do in such a situation: he screams.

A hand – a furry, claw-tipped but human-shaped hand – comes up to cover his mouth. He follows it with his eyes to a furry wrist disappearing into the sleeve of a leather jacket, up to broad shoulders and to the head of the wolf looming over him sprouting from the collar of a Henley.

A wolf. Wearing clothes.

Stiles sags backwards with relief. It’s okay. He’s just dreaming.

“Are you sure you’re not going to scream again?” the wolf growls, sounding exactly like Derek Hale. He applauds his subconscious’ ability to provide such a realistic imitation despite only having a small sample to work with. The more he thinks about it, the less odd he finds it that his subconscious has featured Derek as a wolf. He definitely has the eyebrows for it. And he’s still scowling, wolfy eyes narrowed and showing a bit of fang.

“I didn’t _scream_. It was just a manly shout of surprise,” he corrects, airily.

Derek looks entirely unimpressed – an emotion somehow perfectly conveyed despite the fur and pointy ears – but sits back, giving Stiles a better view of the cabin he’s woken up in.

It’s made up of one rectangular room a bit longer than Stiles’ bedroom, dank, dirty and littered with dried leaves. Rubble has spilled in where part of the back wall has crumbled, overgrown with ivy spreading up to curl around a beam overhead that doesn’t look too stable. There’s a toilet in one corner, like it used to be in a room of its own but has since had the walls knocked down. Every window in the place is broken. The one high on the opposite wall reveals a view of the forest canopy, probably his mind conjuring a recreation of the preserve, and it looks to be getting dark. There’s only one door in the place at the opposite end of the cabin to where they’re seated.

He moves to stand and go outside and explore whatever dream space he's created, but there's a clink of a chain and when he looks down he spots a manacle around his wrist. What's even more alarming is his hands, covered in black fur with narrow, curved claws instead of nails.

Eyes wide with horror, he opens his mouth and takes a deep breath but Derek’s hand clamps over it again before he has a chance to let out another – manly shout.

“ _Don’t. Scream."_

Stiles’ eyes cross to look at Derek’s hand and it’s then that he notices it's cupped awkwardly around an unnatural protrusion to the front of his own face that can only be a muzzle.

He has a muzzle.

Derek pulls his hand away and Stiles’ fly up to feel at the new shape of his face. He tugs on whiskers and winces at what seems like a very real, extremely vivid pain.

“Dude, this is the _weirdest_ dream,” he says, muffled between his fingers.

Derek’s eyes actually seem to soften at that, something about the way the fur above his eyes stops looking so tight, but Stiles is too busy wondering when the dream actually began to pay it much heed. He’d initially thought it started when he ‘woke up’ a minute ago, but then he remembers that flash of light and the smoke and decides it must have been running a little bit longer. He doesn’t know what could have triggered his subconscious to include Derek Hale – and an adult version at that – but the only explanation can be that he fell asleep on Scott’s bed while they were watching horror movie number four of the night, whatever that was. He knew he shouldn’t have eaten that last Hot Pocket.

“This isn’t a dream,” Derek says and Stiles decides he can’t do much else but play along.

“So how do we get out of these things?” he asks, shaking his arm. Derek has one around his wrist too and they've been chained to opposite walls.

“We don’t,” Derek says just as Stiles notices engravings on the manacle: swirls and dots and a jagged line looking a little bit like a four-leaf clover, or maybe a plus sign. He scratches at the marks with a claw but can’t make a dent. “They’ve been charmed so they can’t be broken or picked.”

“Charmed?” Stiles echoes, the corner of his muzzle quirking up in an amused smile. Of course his subconscious knows about his lock-picking skills. He gives the chain a tug where it’s attached to the wall and Derek delivers more bad news.

“I’ve tried that already.”

“Not on my bit of wall.”

“If I wasn’t strong enough to break free, there’s no way you will be.”

“I’ll have you know I’m a lot stronger than I look.” He ignores Derek’s doubtful stare and tries sharper tugs but nothing happens. The wall is clearly unstable but there’s not even so much as a tremor. He gives up with a huff.

Pulling his sleeve up further, he inspects his furry arm instead. Unlike Derek, the black fades to orange the higher he goes, and when he lifts his shirt he finds a white-furred belly. It’s soft beneath his fingers and turns orange where he follows it round to his sides. From what he can see, Derek's fur is black all over, so either Stiles is a wolf with a distinct colouration or he's a–

“Dude, am I a fox right now?” he asks, hands flying up to prod at his face: the protruding muzzle, the fluffy cheeks, the pointed ears. He can’t find an answer through touch and he waits as Derek considers him for a moment.

“You’re… something.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. He gets the feeling that's as close to a confirmation as he's going to get.

“But you’re a wolf. Why are we different?”

A considering silence stretches once more until Derek says, “They say the shape you take reflects the person you are.”

“Who says?”

Derek just shrugs. Stiles has the sneaking suspicion his subconscious is drawing from his experiences with Deaton. It's the exact sort of enigmatic waffle he’d come out with.

Stiles doesn’t get the chance to pry further. He hears the murmur of voices outside and he tenses, expecting the door to the cabin to open at any moment. Seconds pass and the voices don’t get any louder but he realises they’re coming from at least a few hundred yards away.

“Dude,” he breathes, holding up a hand to silence Derek even though he’s not saying anything. “I can _hear things_ too,” he whispers.

Derek rolls his eyes. “They can’t hear you from where they’re standing.”

“You don’t know that!”

“They’re human.”

“So are we!”

Derek raises an eyebrow.

Stiles rolls his head on his shoulders. “You know what I mean!” He ignores Derek’s snort. “Should we get their attention?”

“ _No_. They won’t help us. Keeping them unaware we’re conscious for as long as possible would be to our advantage.”

“God, none of this is making any sense!” he groans, rocking to his feet and starting to pace. “There has to be a way out of here. Or, you know, if I could wake up right about now, that would be great too.”

“You won’t wake up because there’s nothing to wake up _from_ ,” Derek growls, but Stiles ignores him.

His chain only allows him to go so far and the view out the window from the angles he can manage yields nothing but trees and more trees, not even a glimpse of the men.

Didn't people say you can't read in dreams? He casts about for maybe a stray candy bar wrapper blown in by the wind or even an old newspaper, but there’s nothing to be found.

“Fingers. In dreams you have extra fingers,” Derek says.

“I don't have _any_ fingers right now,” Stiles grouches, punctuated by a silent _dumbass_ as he waggles his furry appendages in the wolf's direction.

“They're still fingers,” Derek snarls back.

Stiles sniffs petulantly – and it must be petulant because even he's admitting it – but he can't help it if he's clinging on to the hope he'll wake up any moment with a crick in his neck and crumbs in unmentionable places.

He sniffs again. “What’s that smell?”

It’s something pungent, acrid and – close by.

“It’s coming from your pocket,” Derek informs him.

Stiles lifts the bottom of his shirt out of the way and digs around inside his pocket, emerging with the sprig of mistletoe he’d hidden there at Deaton’s. Now, it’s no more than a blackened twig, the leaves and berries crumbling away like ash.

“Why do you have that?” Derek asks sharply.

“I got it at Deaton’s,” Stiles replies slowly, staring at the twig in confusion.

“The druid?”

Stiles’ head snaps up. “What?”

Derek stares at him. “You really have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into, do you?”

“Then why don’t you enlighten me?”

Derek’s muzzle opens for a moment like he’s trying to decide where to start, but then he clamps it shut, sets his jaw and leans back against the wall, arms crossed.

Stiles waits a few seconds before he realises the stance means Derek has committed himself to silence. “ _Seriously?_ ”

“I don’t trust you,” Derek says simply.

Stiles flails like he’s had a bucket of ice water dumped over his head. “You don’t–? I drove all the way out to warn you these guys were after you, and that’s the thanks I get?”

“Maybe what you don’t know, won’t get you killed.”

“Or maybe my death will be slow and painful because they’ll torture me for information _I don’t know_.”

“What does it matter if this is all _just a dream?_ ” he sneers and Stiles sits back thinking _Good_ _point_.

“Anyway,” Derek continues. “When it comes to what we’re doing here, I’m just as in the dark as you are.”

And with that, he starts shrugging out of his leather jacket and balling it up into a makeshift pillow like this conversation is over and he’s settling down to sleep.

Stiles gapes. He would protest but Derek reminding him this is just a dream has any affront fading. He puts what’s left of the mistletoe back in his pocket, and though settling down to sleep might wake him up, he's too restless.

The manacle isn't tight but it's still an uncomfortable weight and he wishes he could get a better look at his different body. After all, he doesn't think he's ever had a dream so vivid.

He examines his claws again and is just about to take a look at his junk when a strangled growl sounds from Derek, watching him with one eye open. Stiles holds up his hands in placation.

“Fine, whatever! But you can’t tell me you didn’t take a look at yourself before I woke up,” Stiles accuses, waggling his eyebrows.

Derek raises what would be a disbelieving eyebrow if his whole face wasn’t covered in fur. “You’re an idiot,” he announces, shaking his head and closing his eye.

Stiles tries to follow suit, curling up on his side, but his clothes pinch and tug on his fur and he can’t get comfortable.

“Stop squirming,” Derek hisses and all Stiles can see is himself as a bug served up on a platter. He feels about as useful.

Stiles huffs and zips his jacket to his chin, yelping when the teeth catch at his fur. He quiets, but then there's a rumble outside that he places as the sound of an approaching car, followed by a new voice joining the conversation. It sounds like the man who had been panicking through the smoke before Stiles blacked out earlier.

“The druid knows we were there so we're not going to be able to use him again for ingredients.”

Stiles perks up at that.

“Wait, they just said ‘druid’. That’s what you said earlier–”

“Go to sleep, Stiles.”

Stiles sighs and lays back down.

“Wait, how do you know my name? I never told you–”

“ _Good night_.”

 

 

Stiles cracks his eyes open in the morning with a groan. With dried leaves in his mouth and a crick in his neck, he can't pretend for a second that he's woken up in his own bed. He can't pretend either that he's just stuck in a dream. He’s stiff all over, still covered in fur, and Derek’s still just as furry sat up against the opposite wall.

He holds his hands up in front of his face and stares at the leathery pads on his palms and fingertips, lit by the grey-blue light of dawn. He's hungry, head fuzzy with thirst.

He'd been content to leave Derek to his secrets last night when he still thought none of it mattered but now he's wondering if he'll manage to squeeze any answers out of him. His mind isn't feeling up to it.

Derek's eyes snap to Stiles as he sits up, groaning again, but he doesn’t offer any pleasantries. Though, Stiles supposes, it’s not like there’s anything good about the morning.

“What’d I miss?” he asks, trying to shift the manacle to rub at his chafed wrist.

“Breakfast.”

Stiles starts. “Why the hell didn’t you–” His sluggish brain catches up to the sarcasm and he finishes his response with fake-laughter ending on an eyeroll.

Now he's accepting his new reality, he realises they must be pretty far out in the preserve. He doesn't recognise the cabin, but it’s not like it would do much good even if he did. It would also be too good to be true to find his phone in his pocket but he still checks anyway, just in case. Once he’s sure his pockets are empty, he turns to the manacles instead, their most pressing problem. If what Derek says is true about them being unbreakable, unpickable and undetachable, he doesn’t even know where to begin.

First things first, Stiles climbs to his feet to give the toilet a closer look, wrinkling his nose. The handle has been broken off and the cistern lid is missing, the innards beyond repair.

He looks to Derek who shrugs.

“Better than designating a corner.” He pointedly looks away as Stiles unzips.

Stiles takes one glance at what he’s now working with and refuses to ever look at it again until he’s returned to normal.

Sitting back down on the rotting, musty boards is the last thing he wants to do so he resumes his pacing from the night before, hoping it will clear any lingering grogginess. He’s only made two turns when Derek’s ears prick up. “They’re coming back.”

Now he’s focusing, Stiles can hear it too, the crunch of leaves of maybe three approaching people.

“Sit down and don’t say anything stupid,” Derek hisses. “Where’s the mistletoe?”

“In my pocket?” He wonders why Derek deems it so important.

“Make sure it stays there.”

Stiles knows it’s not the time to argue. Derek may have said he has no idea why they’ve been kidnapped, but he’s not entirely uninformed. For now, Stiles will do as he says. He’s in possession of it if he decides to change his mind.

Voices are accompanying the footsteps, a man’s voice that sounds familiar and another belonging to a woman. He realises with a shiver that he heard it yesterday above him through the smoke that started all this. She’d been the one in charge.

The door swings open to admit the woman first, long blonde hair falling in artful waves over her shoulders. Two men flank her once they’re in the room, both of the ones from the gas station. The one who'd spoken on the phone is wearing the same filthy cap, while the other with the crew cut at least looks like he bathed this side of the century.

Derek’s lips pull back at the sight of them, a warning growl rumbling through the air. Stiles finds himself impressed; he doesn’t think he’d manage to sound so menacing if he attempted the same thing.

“Derek,” the woman chides, hands mockingly placed on her hips. “And here I was thinking we could have a bit of fun together.”

Well, if this woman knows Derek’s name, he’s definitely been holding back on the information.

Derek snarls and between one blink and the next he’s on his feet and lashing out. His chain jerks taut before he can reach her, even with his other arm outstretched.

Stiles can’t blame him; his own hackles raised at the way she’d said the word _fun_.

The woman just laughs at Derek’s attempts to get to her.

“Oh, sweetheart, don’t be like that!”

Derek jerks back at the pet name, ears flattening. The woman smiles. It’s wicked and sharp, and Stiles feels sick. He doesn’t know what’s going on, but there’s clearly history between the two of them, a cherished memory for the woman, but something traumatic for Derek. He can’t stand the overt glee she’s taking in his distress.

“Poor little packless Alpha. Though,” she pauses to laugh, almost girlishly, as her eyes rake over Derek before her. “Not so little anymore, are you?”

Derek retreats until his back hits the wall, sagging like it's the only thing that will keep him standing. He doesn't let his legs buckle though and Stiles understands it. His own enhanced instincts are telling him to get to his feet and prepare to flee. But he doesn’t move. He doesn’t want to be the centre of her attention. He feels enough like a fly caught in a web without the spider wrapping him up tight.

“You know, the universe really does work in mysterious ways,” she continues, and Stiles gets the feeling it's the opening line to what will surely be an _enthralling_ villainous monologue. “I was keeping you alive all these years because I wanted you to suffer, but now it turns out it’s all been for a higher purpose. Imagine my surprise when the only counterspell to a curse laid upon my father requires the key ingredient of the strength of an Alpha werewolf without a pack.

“If everything had gone to plan, he’d be cured by now. According to the spell, only a transformation to a full wolf will cut it so, until we work out what went wrong and how to fix it, we’re going to keep you right here. But I must admit, I am glad for this little hiccup. It gives us a chance to catch up.” She says it like she’s just bumped into an old friend on the street and is inviting them for coffee. “It would have been rude to kill you without greeting you first, after all.”

 _Kill?_ Oh, _shit_ , Stiles thinks. He really chose to poke his nose in at the worst possible moment.

Derek remains pressed against the wall, looking every part the cornered animal despite the clothes and human-shaped limbs. Stiles is still missing a few details to get the full picture but his discomfort levels have reached their limit.

“You mean you’re glad to have the chance to hear the sound of your own voice.”

For the first time, the woman’s smile falters and Stiles can’t help feeling a little smug. She’s quick to recover though.

“And don’t think I’ve forgotten about you,” she coos at Stiles, stepping closer to crouch down next to him.

Baseball Cap holds some sort of electrified rod to Derek’s throat to hold him back after he tries to jerk towards her now that she’s within his reach.

“When the plan we’ve been constructing for weeks goes wrong and you’re the only wild card...” she trails off, dragging her nails through the fur at Stiles’ cheek. He shivers, and not in the good way.

Across from him, Derek is clawing gouges in the cabin wall behind him. If only it would work around the chains binding them.

“Why don’t you tell us what you were doing up at the Hale house?” she suggests sweetly.

Stiles isn’t falling for it. “Just having a stroll.”

In a blink, the woman grips his jaw in one hand, squeezing so tightly he’s sure it’s about to crack in two. He grits his teeth and holds her gaze. Eventually, she chuckles.

“You know, Derek, he kind of reminds me of someone. Innocent but headstrong. Oh, the fun we could have,” she purrs into Stiles’ ear.

Derek snarls once more, but this time his eyes bleed red, flashing with some sort of inner light. Stiles would gape if she didn’t still have such a tight hold on his jaw. Can he do something similar in this form?

She laughs triumphantly. “ _There_ he is! I wondered what it would take to see the wolf come out and play.”

Stiles glances between the woman and Derek, not entirely sure what is going on.

“How about this,” the woman begins, finally releasing his jaw. “If the both of you play along, maybe we’ll let the boy go.”

“You’ll let me go?” Stiles can’t hide his disbelief; there’s no way it would be that easy. And what about Derek? Stiles isn’t leaving him here.

A slow smile spreads across the woman’s face. “Who’s going to believe you? Werewolves, foxes–” He’s too slow to flinch back before she can chuck him under the chin. “What an active imagination you have.

“But, first things first.” The sugary smile she’s been exuding so far hardens. “If my father dies because of this little delay, it's _your_ pelt I'll be turning into a winter coat. Or maybe a cosy scarf. And maybe your head would look nice mounted above a fireplace. _But_ ,” she boops him on the nose and he fights back a sneeze and snarl of his own. “If you manage to jog your memory, maybe I'll let you out of this in one piece. How does that sound?” She straightens to her full height. “Think on it.”

She clicks her fingers and the so far silent man, Crew Cut, tosses a loaf of bread and litre bottle of water into the centre of the room. The water bounces and rolls, coming to rest against the base of the toilet. Stiles wrinkles his nose but reminds himself to at least be grateful it didn’t burst on the floor; something tells him they wouldn’t get a replacement.

With those final words, the woman strides from the cabin and her minions trail after her.

The door closes behind them but neither Stiles or Derek move for a good minute or two, listening to the retreating crunch of leaves. As soon as Derek must deem them a suitable distance away, he’s on his feet, pacing back and forth.

“ _You should have ripped her throat out_ ,” he snarls.

“ _What?!_ ” Stiles splutters.

Derek is vibrating with anger and unspent violence, and he turns it on the chain fixing him to the wall. He tugs with all his strength and tries desperate jerks when that appears to do nothing, but they really must be charmed like he said because there’s no give at all. The cabin wall should be crumbling with the force Derek is using but there isn’t even a shower of dust.

Stiles is still reeling. With the way that woman had taken so much delight in Derek’s suffering, it’s like she’s taking some sort of revenge for a heinous act Derek committed against her. It reminds him that he really doesn’t know Derek at all, and whatever she’s doing, whatever she needs Derek for, it has something to do with saving the life of her father. He asks himself if that’s a sentiment he should understand, but something within writhes in discomfort, his fur prickling. He can’t deny Derek’s fear when faced with her, or the fury and desperation he’s exuding now. The vibes she’d been giving off were so sinister, even if he’d only had his duller human instincts, he’s sure they would have warned him against her. Derek may so far have been nothing but taciturn, but he knows without doubt he’d rather throw his lot in with him.

Eventually, Derek either wears himself out or accepts the futility of it all and sags to the ground.

Stiles scoots over to reach for the water bottle, then unscrews the lid and offers it to Derek.

“Come on, have something to drink. You’ll feel better.”

Derek snorts but accepts anyway. He takes a suspicious sniff and it must pass the test because he tilts his head back to pour some into a mouth not suitable for drinking from water bottles. He passes it back and Stiles copies his method. It’s lukewarm but to his parched throat it could be the best thing he’s ever drunk. No matter how much he wants to guzzle the entire bottle, he follows Derek’s lead and forces just a few measured swallows; they have no idea how long they might be stuck here.

He turns to the bread next, plain white, ready-sliced and already stale. He holds one out to Derek who reaches for it but doesn’t eat at first, tearing at it with his claws instead. Stiles doesn’t hesitate; he hasn’t eaten for twenty-four hours. Derek eventually follows suit and Stiles lets him eat in silence despite the thousand questions cycling round inside his head. He’ll at least allow him to finish his meal if it can even be called that. After one more sip of water each, Stiles slowly screws on the cap and sets it down beside him. Then he finally allows his questions to start.

“So. Do you want to explain to me why I shouldn't call for our guards right now to offer up whatever I've got in my pocketses?”

Derek snorts. “Not even a Ring of Power would get you out of these manacles.”

Stiles gapes and maybe his heart flutters just a teeny bit.

“You closet nerd!”

Derek's perpetual frown deepens. “I'm not a closet anything.”

And isn't _that_ something that will require further discussion? When they're not furry. And held captive by potential psychopaths. In chains.

Though maybe the chains could always– “You're not going to distract me that easily,” Stiles interrupts his thoughts, waggling a finger at him.

“I don't need to distract you. It seems you're doing a good enough job of that on your own.”

“Enough deflecting!” he retorts, trying to be stern.

Derek’s face closes just like it had the night before, but this time Stiles isn’t going to back down.

“Look, I don’t want to ask, but I’m part of this now! I deserve to know what’s going on!”

“It’s not my fault you were in the wrong place at the wrong time!”

“Of course it was _your fault_ ,” Stiles seethes and Derek flinches. “I was trying to warn you you were being targeted, and, by the way, if I hadn’t come after you, your pelt would be making a nice rug in someone’s lounge right about now. _You’re welcome_.”

Derek’s muzzle opens like he’s ready to retort but it closes before he makes a sound. For a long moment, Stiles thinks he’s going to refuse to talk again. Derek stares down at his hands but Stiles isn’t sure he’s even seeing them and when he finally speaks, his voice is devoid of emotion.

“That was Kate Argent. She set the fire.”

Stiles doesn’t need to ask which fire, and they both know it. Just with one sentence, everything is starting to settle into place and his fur bristles with delayed revulsion.

“Why?” he asks after a single steadying breath.

Derek eyes blaze red like they had when Kate had turned triumphant.

He’s ready to ask if that’s something he can do now too, but he gets the feeling he’s missing something.

“You heard her say it already.”

Stiles remains blank.

Derek sighs. “I come from a family of werewolves. She’s a hunter.”

At this point, with his whiskers and the shriveled mistletoe in his pocket and Derek as an anthropomorphic wolf in front of him, hearing that from his lips is just another drop in the bucket of crazy that's become his reality.

“And hunters kill werewolves,” he deduces.

“There’s a code. They only hunt werewolves who are a danger to others.”

“And I’m guessing your family didn’t come under that umbrella.”

Derek’s lips pulling back from his fangs is all the answer Stiles needs.

It’s not difficult for him to believe. Kate talked about killing Derek like it was no more than an addition to a grocery list. _We’re running low on milk, and don’t forget detergent._

“I told her about the secret tunnels under the house when we were together. We’d use them to get in and out on full moons. I thought she–”

Derek is struggling to find the words, but it doesn’t matter because Stiles has stopped listening. He keeps hearing the way Derek said ‘together’ on repeat, the stress on the syllables, the way Kate had spoken of the ‘fun’ they’d had, and how Stiles reminded her of someone innocent. His blood runs cold at the implication, images of Derek at the Sheriff’s station – all of _fifteen_ – swirling in his mind’s eye. He wants to gag, has to fiercely swallow down rising bile and breathe steadily through his nose. An acerbic reaction isn’t what Derek needs right now.

“It was because of me,” he finishes. Some of the tension bleeds from his shoulders like it’s a release to say it to somebody.

“It wasn’t your fault.” Stiles is glad that through his revulsion, that’s what bursts from his lips.

His stomach lurches as he remembers Derek’s flinch during his outburst a couple of minutes ago. Now, Derek is smiling. It’s humourless, but something about it is almost smug and Stiles’ feels something inside him twist. He sees Derek’s isolation – a _packless Alpha_ Kate had said – and though Stiles had initially been blaming Derek for getting him into this mess, he knows he only has himself to blame. But Derek isn’t seeing it that way. His guilt isn’t rational and he’s clinging to any confirmation of it, like it’s validated his self-loathing, like someone whispering _See? Your fault. Even the little human boy thinks so._

Stiles sits up straighter, his blood pulsing in his ears. “It wasn’t your fault,” he says again. “None of this is. Me being here is because I always have to stick my nose into everything. I can’t leave anything alone. My dad was always saying it was going to get me into trouble one day, and now here I am. That’s not on you.

“Whatever lies Kate told you, everything she did… You were– You were just a kid–”

“Old enough to know better.”

_“No.”_

Derek shrinks back at Stiles’ ferocity and half turns his head away.

Stiles is shaking. “If someone tells you they care about you, it doesn’t make you the one at fault for trusting them. My best friend’s mom. Her husband was really passionate about his work and was always going away on business trips. It turned out, his ‘business’ was with three different women in the surrounding towns. Should she have known better?”

Derek still isn’t looking at him. There’s a muscle ticking in his jaw but he says nothing and the only thing breaking the silence is Stiles’ heavy breathing. He’s sure Derek isn’t going to say anything more on the matter, at least for now, and it’s probably wisest if Stiles’ refrains from ranting further.

In the silence left in his wake, Baseball Cap’s voice seems to get louder from where he must be keeping watch far off. The one-sided conversation tells Stiles it must be Crew Cut who has to suffer through his nattering. He’s bouncing between topics, first the deteriorating health of a ‘Gerard’ whom Stiles can only guess must be Kate’s father, then their dead end progress on a counterspell, then he’s grumbling about the Yankees beating the White Sox for their eighth straight win of the season.

The time comes where he can’t bear to listen to him any longer so he casts about for something he can drown them out with. With all the bombs dropped in the last twenty-four hours, he has plenty of questions to choose from.

“So, what, you turn into this every full moon?” he asks waving his hand at Derek’s form. It would make sense why he hasn’t been too fazed in his new body.

Derek rolls his eyes, and in his wolfy face it looks kind of ridiculous. At least he’s returning to his previous levels of sass. “No.”

“Then what? An actual wolf? Or is it more like Remus Lupin?”

“ _No_ ,” he repeats, like Stiles is now the ridiculous one. “It’s– It’s more like–” Derek almost looks embarrassed, and when he finally finishes Stiles understands why. “Vampires from Buffy.”

Stiles definitely approves of Derek’s knowledge of nerd culture but he doesn’t have long to appreciate it because he’s trying to picture him with a pronounced, smooth brow and fangs, and can’t stop an ugly snort of laughter. After that, he can’t stop. Real life werewolves look like Buffy vamps, magic is real and he’s been turned into a fox.

“It's not _exactly_ the same!” Derek tries, but Stiles keeps laughing. “What?” he snaps when Stiles shows no sign of stopping.

He looks at Derek, a frowny wolf in a henley.

“You look ridiculous!” he guffaws.

Derek doesn't lose his scowl, but somehow Stiles can tell he’s teetering on the edge of amusement. “You don’t look so hot yourself. No wonder animals don’t laugh, you look like an idiot.”

The insult is nothing but playful despite however much Derek might argue that he means it, and it takes a good while for Stiles’ giggles to subside.

The lighter mood doesn't last.

The rain cloud returns to hover over Derek’s head, muzzle twitching like he’s gearing up to tackle a subject he’s reluctant to broach but can’t avoid.

“You came to warn me,” he eventually says with no inflection, but no more words follow so Stiles assumes it must have been a question.

He shrugs one shoulder. “I thought they were going to beat you up or try to run you out of town or something. If I’d have known they were going to–” He pauses to wave a hand at their situation, more succinct than trying to condense it all into words. “–I might have come a little more prepared.”

Derek doesn’t answer but with the way his jaw is set, it’s like he has a _thanks_ clamped firmly under his tongue but doesn’t remember how to shape it with disuse. He wonders, not for the first time, what could have happened to him in the years since he left Beacon Hills but he doesn’t pry; Derek’s already shared enough of his past as it is.

Instead, Stiles turns his questions to the present.

“So what do we do now?”

Derek shrugs. “The fact they don’t know about the mistletoe yet is to our advantage.”

Stiles puts a hand over the pocket holding the shrivelled twig Derek had ordered him to hide.

“But what does the mistletoe have to do with anything?”

“It interfered with the ingredients they used for their spell. The longer it takes them to work out mistletoe was the problem, the longer it will take for them to put together a counterspell.”

“Can we use it?” Stiles asks, about to get it out of his pocket again to examine it.

Derek huffs like Stiles is asking him to explain something as simple as why one plus one equals two. “No. There’s no power left in it now.”

“So what do we do in the meantime?”

“You’re the Sheriff’s kid. When you didn’t go home last night, your dad would have put together the biggest search party this town’s ever seen. The Argents not knowing who you are is another win for us.”

Stiles grimaces. “Maybe not _last night_.”

“What do you mean?”

“My dad’s working the night shift so our paths wouldn’t have crossed. It might take a couple of days for him to realise I’m gone?” He doesn’t mean for it to turn into a question but Derek’s face is turning stormy again and Stiles can feel himself readying to shrink away.

Derek’s head falls back with a _thunk_. “ _Perfect_ ,” he breathes. “Just. _Perfect_.”

“But there’s Scott!” Stiles continues, perking up. “We’re supposed to be hanging out today. And if that fails, I can guarantee if I’m even one second late for school Monday, Harris will be straight on the phone with my dad.” Stiles pauses for a moment, trying to wrap his head around the possibility that Harris – bitter, malignant _Harris_ – could end up being his saviour. Stiles prays Scott won’t let him down; Harris would be unbearable if he ever found out Stiles owed him his life.

“Wait, how did you know I’m the son of the Sheriff?”

“I remember you too.”

That wasn't what Stiles had been expecting. He didn't think Derek had been of a mind to pay him enough attention to recognise him these few years later.

He wonders if he's just a reminder of that awful night. Remembering how Derek had sped away without turning back when he'd called after him at the gas station makes him shift uncomfortably. He’s only now realising Derek didn’t just lose his family, but his pack. Wolves aren’t something he knows too much about, but he at least knows they’re social animals and the way Kate spoke about Derek being a packless Alpha made it sound rare to find. With Derek’s reliance on people noticing Stiles is missing, he’s not sure Derek has anyone to realise he’s gone. He’s not brave enough to ask straight out.

“So where do you call home now?” Stiles asks instead, rubbing at his wrist where the manacle sits.

“Why?”

Stiles rolls his head on his shoulders. “I’m just making conversation, dude.”

“New York,” he answers after what seems like a suspicious silence. He’s clearly a man of few words and it has Stiles feeling like he’s trying to reel the information out past his clenched jaw.

Stiles raises his eyebrows. “Do you like it?”

“It’s fine.”

“Oh, wow, what a box quote. ‘It’s fine – Derek Hale, Wolf Weekly’,” he teases, raising his hand like he’s reading from a billboard.

Derek huffs what Stiles would like to think is a laugh.

“Why did you come back?”

“I heard the house was going to be torn down and I wanted to see it one last time.” He stares down at his hands, muzzle twisting into a pain-filled smile Stiles has to tear his eyes away from. “Probably just another ploy I fell for.”

Every avenue of conversation with Derek returns them to the very same crossroads. Stiles sighs.

“There must be a way out of this. What about one of the men, the hunters? Why are they so keen to help them?” Crew Cut hasn’t said a word in the times Stiles has seen him and he wonders if his silence could be rooted in a conscience. If just one of their captors is sympathetic they might stand a chance of making an escape.

“The Argents are an old family. _Really_ old, and they’ve hunted werewolves for generations. They’re respected. Some share their views that all werewolves should be eradicated.” Derek shakes his head. “We won’t get help from anyone here.”

Stiles worries his lip with his fangs. Derek obviously has more experiences with hunters, but that experience could also be twisting his perspective.

Stiles will reserve judgement. For now.

 

 

In the later hours of the next morning, Baseball Cap and Crew Cut make an appearance with a fresh bottle of water. They still have over half of the first one left but it’s a welcome sight, even if the lack of new food is a disappointment.

Stiles is expecting them to toss it inside and then be on their way back to their sentry point, but Baseball Cap has his collapsible baton in one hand, like he’s itching to use it. Crew Cut remains a silent presence by the door and Stiles can’t help watching him for any signs that he might disagree with what’s happening to them.

Baseball Cap sets the bottle of water down just out of reach of their chain lengths and cracks a grin that shows off a missing canine. Stiles makes the mistake of thinking a bit of light-hearted banter might help to bridge the gap. Well, it’s not like he’s ever been good at keeping his mouth shut for long.

“You don’t think we could get a toaster and some peanut butter in here, do you?”

“You’ll get what you’re given and if you carry on, I’ll shove that bread down your goddamn throat.”, is the immediate reply and Stiles doesn’t have the chance to make things worse because Derek beats him to it by snarling. At this point, Stiles is wondering if it’s as much a reflex as Stiles’ proclivity to chatter.

Baseball Cap slices his arm through the air to extend his baton and advances. Derek readies himself by springing to his haunches, but then Crew Cut is there, his own baton outstretched and already crackling, so close to pressing against Derek’s throat. Baseball Cap, however, doesn’t stop at intimidation.

Derek is powerless to defend himself as the man lifts his arm and strikes him over the head. It’s then that he sees a sign from Crew Cut but it’s one that makes his blood run cold. There’s delight on his face at seeing Derek crumple in front of him and Stiles realises his isn’t the silence of a conscience but a sadistic streak.

“Hey! _HEY!_ ” Stiles yells, jumping to his feet.

“Don’t be fooled, kid. He’s nothing but an animal.”

Stiles’ jaw drops. He’d bet they wouldn’t even treat a dog this way. “Yeah? Well, I wonder what animal you’d be if we poured some of that magic concoction on you? My money’s on toad.”

Baseball Cap’s face twists with irritation. “That’s it. I’ve had enough of your smart mouth.”

Stiles only has time to realise he didn’t really think this through before Baseball Cap has crossed the room and his baton is swinging at his head. It strikes him high on the cheek, narrowly missing his eye, only because he’d tried to dodge at the last moment. His ears ring with the blow and the whole world spins while his vision darkens around the edges. When he manages to focus again through squinted eyes, he’s lying on his side on the cold rough boards, conscious enough to experience a heavy boot colliding with his ribs. Air rushes from his lungs and he curls in on himself, gasping for breath that won’t come. There’s a roaring in his ears, whether from his blood pumping or maybe Derek, he can’t tell. Maybe both. It becomes a whine that Stiles is sure must be coming from him, but through the haze of pain he catches sight of Derek convulsing on the floor, Crew Cut’s weapon not enough of a deterrent.

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut, his only defense against another blow, but instead he hears receding laughter, the cold, cruel tone enough to be sure it’s not just his imagination.

He lets his head loll to the floor, the boards hard against his temple, and closes his eyes, content to let himself be swallowed by pressing darkness.

 

 

When he comes to, he thinks he must have nodded off at the Sheriff’s Station, one of the K9s licking his cheek to wakefulness. Instead, his eyes open to find Derek’s green ones staring down at him, tongue peeking out of his muzzle. They’re in the centre of the cabin, their chained arms stretching behind themselves where they’re not quite long enough to allow them to meet comfortably in the middle. Stiles had been pulled into his lap, head resting on his shoulder.

“Dude, gross,” Stiles protests, weakly.

Derek withdraws his tongue and shuts his muzzle with a snap, bewildered. A bewildered wolf. Stiles would laugh at how he looks if not for the pain he’s in, throbbing in his ribs and across his cheek – the wound Derek had been tending.

“It’s instinct,” Derek defends gruffly.

Stiles wonders if he’s blushing, wonders what his blush would look like if he was in human form. High in his cheeks, down his neck? Or maybe in his ears. Ear-blushing is a thing, isn’t it? His eyes drift shut once more as his mind starts to wander, picturing human Derek with red ears and pink creeping up out of his stubble. The scent of leather surrounds him even though Derek isn’t wearing his jacket, hasn’t done since he balled it up for a pillow that first night. It mixes with a smell Stiles can’t place but is something reminiscent of the ocean, wild and vast – possibly lingering cologne – and all he wants to do is drink it in, but his bruised ribs protest whenever he tries to breathe too deep.

“Don’t do that again.”

“Wha’?” Stiles asks, fighting to crack open his bleary eyes.

“Step in for me. I don’t need you to do that. I heal, you don’t.”

“I heal,” Stiles tries to argue.

“Not like I do. Werewolves heal much faster than humans. Look: I’m already back to normal.”

Stiles gaze drifts from Derek’s eyes to the smears of dried blood matting his fur at the corner of his muzzle. Despite those signs, he’s clearly in better shape than Stiles.

He’s hit by the sudden urge to clean Derek’s fur of the traces of his healed wounds, the instinct Derek must have been talking about. Somehow, Stiles doesn’t think it would be acceptable to start licking at his mouth.

“The next time you do something like that, I’ll eat your stale bread ration,” Derek warns, but it’s an empty threat and they both know it.

“You wouldn’t.” He tries to muster some outrage but barely makes more than a sigh.

“Try me.” There’s no heat behind it and it’s punctuated by fingers scratching at the base of one of his ears. He loses the battle to keep his eyes open and his groan of pleasure comes out like a purr. Apparently that’s a thing now.

“Come on, have some water. And you need to eat something.” Derek’s voice has turned soft, such a far cry from the brusque growls Stiles has been getting used to. Who knew he’d have such a soothing bedside manner?

He’s starting to realise he'd been wrong to liken him to stone. Stone doesn't bend. Instead, he's like steel, forged from loss and loneliness, waiting to be reshaped, or ice waiting for a reason to thaw. He just hopes that Derek will get that chance.

Derek lifts their open bottle of water to Stiles’ lips and Stiles is surprised to see the new one beside them. He’d been expecting to hear the hunters had taken it back with them. It means they don’t need to be as sparing as he guzzles what Derek tips into his mouth. He encourages Derek to drink some too, then sits back to watch as Derek takes a slice of bread and tears off chunks to feed him despite Stiles’ hands being in perfect working order. He doesn’t bother protesting. He feels weak. He does try to protest when Derek digs out another slice to feed him, but Derek won’t hear it.

When Derek twists the bread bag shut without having anything himself, Stiles realises he’s given Stiles his ration, and that’s when he really puts his foot down. Derek tries to pretend he already ate one when Stiles was out, but with only one loaf of bread to keep them going for who knows how many days, Stiles had counted the slices at least three times to work out how long it would last them.

Derek grumbles but eventually pulls out a slice for himself and Stiles makes sure to keep his eyes open to watch Derek swallow every bite.

Once that’s over, he lets his head drop to rest on Derek’s shoulder once more and sighs as Derek’s claws return to scratch at his ears.

“You’ll probably have some spectacular bruising when you change back.”

Stiles doesn’t voice the monumental _if_ he knows they’re both thinking.

“I told you I have to stick my nose into everything. I can never keep my mouth shut.”

“You’re an idiot,” Derek agrees.

He just hopes Derek isn't internally blaming himself for stoking the hunters’ ire.

“My dad says that a lot too.” A pang goes through him as he thinks of his dad. He wonders what he might be doing, if he even knows yet.

The mention of the outside must put Derek on the same track. “When were you supposed to see your friend?”

“Lunchtime. He would have called my dad when I didn't show and he couldn't get hold of me.” There’s confidence in Stiles’ voice that he isn’t sure he really feels. It’s silly to doubt. Of course Scott isn’t going to have just shrugged and gone about his day when Stiles didn’t turn up. Maybe he’d wait a bit thinking he was just running late, but eventually his dad will be called, if he hasn’t been already. Scott’s not going to let him down. It’s just difficult to imagine anything existing outside the four walls they can do nothing but stare at.

Derek’s hand drifts to his other ear, making him shiver in delight, and it reminds him of an earlier conversation, one from before his introductions to the world of werewolves.

“Now the truth of your wolfy heritage is revealed, why am I really a fox?”

“I don’t know. It’s true what I said about the shape you take reflecting the person you are.”

“I’m not sure I like what that says about me.”

“Foxes are clever and resourceful. It’s not a bad thing at all. Wolves don't get along with them though,” he finishes, showing off his fangs in a grin.

“So that’s why you’ve been such a grump. Am I offensive to your wolfy nose or something?”

“Or something.”

Derek doesn’t elaborate, and for once in his life, Stiles is tired of talking. As silence falls, it magnifies Baseball Cap’s voice so Stiles drowns him out by focusing on the beat of Derek’s heart by his ear instead. It’s a soothing rhythm that soon has him drifting.

He’s roused from his doze sometime later by Derek’s careful hand on his shoulder. Derek holds a finger to his lips before pointing to his ear. In Stiles’ bleary state, he’s not sure what that’s supposed to mean for a second or two, until he catches the far off buzz of voices and focuses his hearing toward them. The man who’d gone into meltdown when he realised Stiles had been caught in the blast of the spell is the one speaking.

“You’re the one explaining this to Kate. The Goddamn _Sheriff_. You think we can send him home now, black and blue?”

There’s a smack like the sound of someone being struck round the head.

“Don’t _fucking_ hit me,” Baseball Cap grouches and there’s another smack of what has to be him returning the blow. “Who cares, anyway? She couldn’t have been serious when she said we’d let him go.”

Stiles tenses and Derek squeezes his shoulder where his arms are still wrapped around him, but it's little comfort.

“Aw, man, Kate is not gonna be happy,” Meltdown whines.

“You think I give a damn about that Argent woman? Strutting around like she's the Queen of England.” There's the sound of Baseball Cap spitting on the ground.

Stiles lifts his head to look at Derek. “My dad knows,” he whispers, and Derek nods.

“It must be all over town.”

Stiles sags with relief. It doesn’t mean anyone knows where they are yet, but having it at least known they’re missing is the first step to a rescue.

He jolts at the sound of an approaching car, heart in his mouth with the foolish thought that his dad is here already. It crunches to a halt and when a door opens, Kate can be heard seething and the bubble of hope turns to acid.

She's walking fast and other footsteps must be Baseball Cap scurrying along behind her.

“Er, er, Ma’am? You don’t need to–”

But the door is already slamming open. Kate storms in and skids to a halt when she catches sight of the two of them  on the floor. Stiles must look the worse for wear because she rounds on Baseball Cap all but cowering in the doorway.

“What the hell happened?”

Baseball Cap crosses his arms but, unlike when Derek had taken the same stance when Stiles followed him to the Hale house,  the gesture just makes him look smaller. “He needed to be taught a lesson,” he sulks.

Kate places her hands on her hips, and though Stiles can't see her face, the gesture so menacing the man seems to shrink another foot under the weight of it.

She turns back to the two of them on the floor.

“Break it up.”

“Why, so you can smack him around a bit more? Break a rib this time?” Derek retorts, his grip on Stiles tightening.

“Taking the injured cub under your wing? How sweet,” Kate sneers.

Something about the glower on Derek’s face changes, though Stiles can’t pinpoint what. Whatever it is, Kate’s narrowed eyes say she doesn’t like it, but she turns her back on them to address the hunters hovering behind.

“They know he disappeared somewhere on the road through the preserve from following footage that showed him at the gas station where you numbskulls had been yammering where anyone could hear you. _That’s_ why he followed Derek to the house.”

Baseball Cap winces and even Crew Cut looks chastened. The man who must be Meltdown is hovering just outside the door, trying to stay out of sight and out of the path of blame. He's just as mousey-looking as his voice suggests.

“It will take at least forty-eight hours for them to search this far out into the preserve.” She raises a manicured talon at Baseball Cap who shrinks back warily. “You’d better work out the reversal spell before then or so help me God…”

“Yes, ma’am.” Baseball Cap is so meek Stiles is surprised he's not holding his hat in his hands. So much for all his big talk earlier.

She regards him for a few moments longer, breathing heavily through her nose. “Well? What are you waiting for? _Get out of my sight_ ,” she hisses.

The hunters nearly fall over themselves trying to be the first to leave the cabin. Kate throws him and Derek a dark look before following, slamming the door on its protesting hinges.

“ _And from now on, no one touches the kid!_ ” Kate can be heard bellowing after the retreating hunters. “You keep watch,” she continues at a quieter level to Meltdown. “You’re the only one who’s actually reliable around here.”

She seems to be forgetting he’s the one who fired the arrow and dragged Stiles into this mess in the first place, but sure.

“Yes, ma’am, I won’t let you down,” Meltdown simpers in return, and then Kate can be heard climbing into her car and driving after the other two.

Only when the sound of Kate’s engine fades into the distance does Stiles feel like he can breathe after that whirlwind of a visit.

“So we just need to hold out for another two days,” Stiles says, aiming for optimism but sounding flat even to his own ears.

Derek’s head does an almost imperceptible shake, like he’s catching himself before he can answer.

Stiles sighs. He already knows what he’s going to say. “What?”

Derek glares down at the boards beneath them. “They’ll just move us somewhere else if anyone starts to get close.”

They fall back into silence, and Stiles really should get out of Derek’s lap, but it’s difficult to force himself to move. It’s cosy huddled together, and though he knows Derek is just as at the hunter’s mercy as he is, he feels safe. However, it gets to the point where Stiles can’t take his arm stretched out behind him any longer so they both untangle to lean against their respective walls. It takes Stiles a while to manage with his bruised ribs, but he finally settles back with a sigh.

The air in the room has turned heavy, helpless even, and he doesn’t like the increasing weight of the cloud hovering over them.

“We’re not dying here,” he vows.

Derek's eyes widen at the adamance in his voice. It shocks even him. But now he’s said it his determination grows.

“There has to be something we can do.”

Derek lifts his arm, drawing Stiles’ eyes to the clinking chains.

“They have to unlock us at some point,” he argues.

Derek greets it with a wry smile. “They’ll probably pump me full of tranquilisers first.”

“But they won’t expect it from me. I've got claws and fangs now, I can use them!”

“Can you?”

Stiles stares down at his hands, the claws, imagines them dark and sticky with blood, his fur matted. The question isn’t a sneer like the Derek of two days ago might have made. Instead, it’s like he's speaking from experience, like he wouldn't blame Stiles if he couldn't.

Stiles doesn’t answer and Derek doesn’t say any more on the matter.

 

 

The question eats into Stiles’ sleep and haunts him through to the next day.

Neither of them speak much, the futility of the situation weighing on the both of them, and even when the two disgraced hunters show up to deliver what seems to be their daily bottle of water, Stiles can’t manage a single remark even though he has immunity now. He knows they’d just take it out on Derek if he did. Turns out, that’s not going to stop them.

Rather than tease them again with an out of reach bottle of water, this time Baseball Cap launches it at Derek, narrowly missing his head where he manages to duck. Derek is on his feet in the next moment, chain taut and fangs bared. By Baseball Cap’s smile, it seems that’s the reaction he was hoping for.

“She said not to touch them!” Crew Cut warns, finally finding his voice.

“She said not to touch the kid. The animal’s fair game.” He extends his baton and turns it on, and in moments, Derek is shuddering on the ground, the manacle on his wrist getting in the way of a fair fight. “Though I’m not convinced he’s as human as he’s pretending,” Baseball Cap says darkly, casting a glance at Stiles like Derek isn’t even there. “Anyway, it’s not like this one’s got long left. With the way we’re progressing, he probably won’t see nightfall.”

“And let’s _keep on_ progressing. If we don’t have this sorted today, Kate will have both our heads.” Kate must really have Crew Cut rattled if he's saying this much.

Baseball Cap gazes sadly down at Derek gritting his teeth on the floor like he’s lamenting the beating he’s going to miss doling out, then mercifully turns on his heel. “I’d like to see her try,” he scoffs as he goes out the door, and even Crew Cut rolls his eyes to say he's sick of the false bravado.

“Derek?” Stiles asks as soon as they’re gone, crawling forward to where Derek lays unmoving.

“‘M’okay,” he slurs, breathing shallowly.

“What do you need me to do?” Stiles panics, hovering over him. “Do you want some water? Do you need to sit up? I can–”

“Stiles,” Derek doesn’t have enough energy to shout it but Stiles flinches and shuts his muzzle as if he had. “Just. Give me a minute. I’ll be fine.”

Seeing Derek like this has Stiles’ limbs feeling shaky like he was the one who got shocked. Amidst half-hearted protests, he manoeuvers Derek until he’s close enough to pull his head into his lap,

It takes decidedly longer than just a minute.

He scratches at Derek's ears like he'd done to him, half expecting Derek to growl or bat his ear in annoyance but he smiles and hums. Stiles wants to call him a big puppy but he can hear Baseball Cap calling Derek an animal so he digs his fangs into his lip.

“I'm glad you're with me,” Derek murmurs, and Stiles’ hand stills.

“Hey,” he begins, sharply. “Stop talking like you’re dying.”

Derek huffs but heeds Stiles’ words and they sit there in silence for what feels like hours. Stiles’ feet have long gone numb and Derek seemed to regain his strength a while back, but he never wants it to stop. If he could freeze this moment in time and never reach whatever conclusion they’re heading towards, he’d gladly take it.

When Derek eventually speaks, Stiles isn’t expecting the subject.

“I remember you from that night. At the Sheriff’s station.”

A lump forms in Stiles’ throat, an ache in his chest building that that’s what Derek’s thoughts have turned to. He’s probably telling himself it was inevitable that it would all come full circle, that he was being saved for a ‘higher purpose’, like Kate had said.

“Yeah?” Stiles asks, hoarsely. He knows Derek hears the tremor in his voice but he doesn't comment.

“Yeah,” Derek sighs. “I remember your scent.”

“My scent?” Stiles thinks about leather and the ocean.

“You smelled like pencil shavings and Oreos. I always–”

Derek pauses at the sound of an approaching car that drives closer to the cabin than it ever has before. Stiles’ heart leaps once more with the hope that it’s a rescue but it's shattered by Kate’s voice. This time, it sounds triumphant.

“You always what, Derek?” Stiles asks urgently. It feels like the walls are closing in, like he can’t breathe, like if this is it and he goes on without ever knowing what Derek was going to say he’ll never forgive himself – for however long he has left to live.

“It doesn't matter.”

“Yes, yes it does. You always what?”

But feet are approaching and the door will open any second and Derek has his eyes closed like he’s savouring their last few moments of peace.

“Move apart,” Kate orders as soon as the door flies open, a crumbling leatherbound book under one arm and a dish filled with what can only be mistletoe in the other.

Stiles is ready to protest – _Over my dead body_ – but Derek's already sitting up.

He looks resigned.

It punches the breath from Stiles’ lungs harder than that kick to the ribs. Words swirl around inside his head, forming into empty promises that turn to ash on his tongue, but what else is there to say?

His face is numb but his chest aches, a throbbing, physical pain that swells with each of his breaths rasping in his ears. He sits frozen, hands still curled from where he'd been scratching at Derek's ears, while his mind screams at him to _do something!_ But he can't tear his eyes away from Derek's face, the forming ghost of a sad smile.

“It’s okay.”

No. No, it isn’t. Nothing about this is okay. But words still don’t come.

He doesn't move until an electric baton appears in the corner of his vision and he scrambles back out of reflex like he's already been shocked by it. He regrets it immediately, wishes he’d held his ground and remained close so Derek wouldn’t feel like he’s alone.

“I’m here,” is what comes out of his mouth and that’s not what he wanted to say at all.

But Derek is still smiling that sad smile. _I’m glad you’re with me_ , he’d said. Stiles is glad too. He's glad he had this chance to know him, that someone was here to know what happened to him instead of disappearing without a trace.

Baseball Cap raises a gun to aim at Derek, and Stiles’ stomach leaps into his throat. He yells as the hunter pulls the trigger, but sags with temporary relief when it turns out to be a tranquiliser gun, the dart embedded in the fur on the side of Derek’s neck.

Derek’s eyes go hazy in seconds and Stiles’ chain rattles as he tries to get to him.

“Derek? Derek, look at me. Just look at me.”

Derek is struggling to focus as his eyes go glassy, but Stiles hopes that the sound of his voice at least brings comfort. He sags down the wall, head lolling until his chin rests on his chest.

“Derek. _Derek!_ ” Stiles tugs at his chain, not remembering getting to his feet, and reaches out for Derek’s limp body, like a connection between them will somehow envelop him in some sort of shield. The hunters swat him aside and the fall has him tensing around his bruised ribs, leaving him winded. He’s helpless as Kate sets the book and mistletoe down in front of Derek’s drooping form, unlocking his manacle with a key produced from her pocket before easing the book open to a barely intact page bearing an illustration of what looks like a purple plant.

She follows a passage with her finger as she begins to read, and Stiles tries to distract her but as soon as he says one word, Crew Cut jabs him with his electrified baton in his side. Every muscle in his body seizes, spine bowing and fingers curling. He gasps for breath when it passes, limbs trembling with aftershocks. He feels like he’s been sapped of all his energy.

He can only watch, panting, as Kate says the final word and lifts a sprig of the mistletoe from the bowl to a match which she tosses onto Derek’s body. Smoke billows just like with the original spell and when it finally dissipates, Derek is returned to his human form.

He looks peaceful, closed eyelids delicate and mouth slightly parted like all it would take is a kiss to wake him and end the nightmare. Stiles just wishes he could run his fingers through his hair and let him sleep.

“Everybody back,” Kate orders, handing the dish of the remaining mistletoe to Meltdown who carries it outside, far away so it can’t interfere again.

She pulls a vial from her pocket,stands back and tosses it at the wall above Derek’s head. The smash is the same sound from the arrow that started it all.

As Stiles closes his eyes against the flash of light, he realises all that’s left to do is pray. They fucked it up the first time. Maybe, just maybe, they'll get it wrong again and it will buy them a few more days, a few more days for his dad to find them, a few more days of Derek calling him an idiot with growing fondness they both know he’s stopped trying to hide.

When the smoke clears for the second time, it reveals a wolf in clothes, but now they’re ripped and misshapen, not suitable for the form of the real wolf now stretched out in front of them.

Derek is still knocked out and to Stiles’ eyes he looks dead already. In mere minutes that will really be the case.

Stiles’ weak limbs begin a new bout of trembling as something squeezes around his throat and he latches on to a steady drumbeat to keep himself from getting pulled under, the sound of Derek’s heart. It's like clinging onto it might keep it alive, no matter what the Argents do to him.

Baseball Cap and Meltdown are struggling to lift his bulk, staggering with him towards the door.

Crew Cut still stands over Stiles and Kate jerks her head at him and tosses him the manacle keys.

“Bring the kid. As soon as this is over, we’ll have to decide what we’re going to do with him.”

Crew Cut unlocks the cuff at last but Derek’s question of whether Stiles would be able to use his claws on someone doesn't matter; he’s too weak to do much of anything. He’s grabbed by the collar of his jacket and hauled across the floorboards, his legs acting like they’re moving through thick treacle.

He’s dragged out onto the leaf strewn path to a clearing of trees on one side of the cabin, as much of a ruin on the outside as it is on the in. Derek has already been set down in the middle of the patchy grass covering the clearing and Crew Cut dumps Stiles near the cabin wall, giving him a front row seat to whatever ceremony is about to occur.

Kate is standing by an SUV parked at the clearing’s edge, assisting a frail old man out of the passenger seat. She offers her arm for support which he gladly clings to as he staggers over.

Sallow skin is stretched taut across his skull, and his teeth, bared in a grimace, are black around the edges. As Stiles watches, Gerard lifts a tissue to his mouth and his body is racked by heaving coughs that almost topple him. When he pulls the tissue away, it's dripping with a black, ooze-like substance, the source of his stained teeth. He really doesn’t look like he’s got long left.

Stiles tries to crawl to Derek but a knee digs into the small of his back. He grunts at the pressure but it doesn’t ease.

Kate helps Gerard kneel in front of Derek and Baseball Cap steps forward with another tome, this one in better condition than the first. She opens it to a marked page and sets it on the ground before him, but Stiles is too far away to make anything out.

Kate steps back. Gerard starts to read.

Stiles’ entire body floods cold like he’s been doused with icy water beneath his fur, spreading through every vein. It's happening. It's really happening. Despite the tranquiliser and the mistletoe and Derek's full transformation, a part of him had thought there would still be a way out of this. That there was still a chance to wake up. Good always triumphs over evil in the end. That’s how the stories always go. But as a halo begins to glow around Derek's still form, he can feel the remaining pages running out and it feels less like the end of a chapter and more like the end of the book.

Gerard’s chanting finishes and the glow Derek is emitting illuminates his triumphant grin, an ugly, twisted thing, and Stiles grits his teeth against it as if it were another kick to the ribs.

This isn't fair. This isn't _fair_ . They've taken – _everything_ – from Derek.

He keeps hearing that old saying that everything happens for a reason, but the only thing that’s going to come of this is these people spreading more death and suffering. By the sounds of things, Stiles will be first on the agenda.

With his limbs still not responding properly and the knee pressing into his back like the weight of a mountain, all he can do is hope. That it will be quick, that Derek won’t feel anything.

As steadily as it came, the light around Derek fades and Stiles almost wants to cry “ _Was that_ _it_?”

He can’t tell if the spell is over. The clearing has remained frozen, every person - and seemingly even the wind - holding their breath for the outcome. Stiles can still hear Derek’s heartbeat but he can’t tell if it’s just an echo, a cruel trick of his mind. He digs his claws into the earth beneath him like it will help him cling to it and keep it going. His gaze darts between Derek on the floor and Gerard towering over him, back and forth, back and forth, until–

Gerard’s leer falls. “It didn’t work,” he croaks.

Kate looks stricken and she all but dives for the book, inspecting whatever passage they’d been using with feverish intensity. The other hunters shift uncomfortably, all eyes on the Argent duo falling apart in front of them. All eyes except for Stiles’.

He offers no warning as Derek stirs.

Baseball Cap goes down first with Derek’s jaws clamped around his throat before he can even register what’s happening. There’s a gurgled scream and when Derek releases him he clutches uselessly at his ruined throat.

Crew Cut stumbles back from Stiles with a yell as Derek launches himself at him next, dropping his electric baton. Stiles’ snatches it up, not pausing to find out the hunter’s fate as he rolls unsteadily to his feet. Instead, he lunges at Kate who is levelling her gun at Derek and strikes her with the rod across her ribs. She drops like a stone, shuddering on the ground, and Stiles goes for her gun next.

He can hear snarls and more gurgles coming from behind him but he doesn’t turn to look, searching instead for Gerard.

He finds him when the cold steel of a blade presses to his throat. Without pause, he grabs Gerard’s wrist, twisting the frail man’s arm and digging in with his claws until he drops the knife with a yelp. With one push, Gerard stumbles and falls back beside his daughter.

All three of them are breathing heavily, Stiles with the gun up and at the ready, the Argents the worse for wear. He can still hear Baseball Cap’s life slowly draining from him a few feet away but he doesn’t turn to look.

Derek appears at his side and when he dives for Kate, Stiles shouts, “Don’t!”

Derek skids to a halt and starts pacing back and forth between Stiles and the Argents, tossing his head, the urge to attack still visibly coiled in his muscles.

“We chain them up. They’ve got too much to answer for to get the easy way out. Let the curse run its course and have Kate live a long life knowing that she failed.”

Derek whines and gazes up at him and Stiles reaches out his hand. He wants to kneel and throw his arms around Derek’s neck, squeeze him tight and never let go. He’s alive. They made it through.

Derek’s cold nose touches his fingertips and he laps at the smears of blood on Stiles’ claws, before stepping back with a huff. His fur starts to ripple and recede and Stiles is shocked that it’s a transformation Derek now has control of. Four legs turn to two as Derek straightens in his human form with no fur in sight, but his eyes are as red as the blood dripping from his jaw and matting the hair on his chest. If it weren’t Derek, the image would be something out of nightmares. Still, the desire to throw his arms around him has been dampened significantly by the blood decorating him.

“You handle the old man,” Derek orders before reaching down and grabbing Kate by her immaculate hair. She shrieks as he starts to drag her back towards the cabin, but her limbs are still sluggish, a sensation Stiles can remember well.

With the music of Kate’s distress, Stiles turns to Gerard and levels the gun, gesturing with the barrel for him to follow his daughter. He doesn’t move to help as the old man struggles to his feet, half sure he’s exaggerating his frailty to lull him into lowering his guard.

Derek has already chained Kate in the manacle he’d been forced to wear by the time Gerard’s hobble gets them into the cabin and he doesn’t bother being gentle when he closes what used to be Stiles’ manacle around Gerard’s wrist.

Stiles still doesn't lower the gun. It all feels too good to be true, too convenient that the Argents managed to mess up again at the final hurdle. It's only when Derek gently places his hand over the barrel of the gun that he realises he's shaking, racked with surging adrenaline. He manages to pry his fingers from the grip, and Derek takes it from him. A hand on his shoulder turns him away from the Argents and he stares into Derek's pale eyes shining in a beam of sunlight through one of the cracked windows. He pointedly doesn’t look at the blood drying on his jaw.

Derek shifts and pulls the book Kate had used to return him to a human from under his arm and holds up the dish of fresh mistletoe in the other. Stiles hadn’t even heard him go back outside.

“See if you can find the page they used to turn me back while I wash off this blood.” He’s talking to Stiles like he’s a spooked horse which is an accurate assessment of how he’s starting to feel.

Stiles nods and Derek picks up their unopened bottle of water.

“I’ll be right back,” he promises and carries it outside.

Stiles sits down on the creaking boards for what he hopes is the last time and begins the painstaking task of easing through the fragile pages. He does his best to drown the Argents out but it’s not an easy task.

“You don't know what you've done,” Kate is slurring between pants. “He's a monster. You’ll see, one day. And the blood will be on your hands.”

He wants to inform her who the real monsters are but he knows her prejudice runs too deep for him to reason with, so he says nothing. He does contemplate using the baton to shock her back into silence though.

When Gerard chimes in with his quavering voice to tell a story of the atrocities committed by some rabid werewolf he put down in the past, Kate shushes him with pleas to conserve his strength. The concern she shows him is sickening, but what’s even worse is the wet, bubbling sounds Gerard makes as he talks through the inky phlegm plaguing him, so Stiles is grateful that he’s silenced.

Kate’s ramblings quiet for a while as she tugs on the chain and Stiles would pause to revel in the satisfaction of her fruitless effort, but his desire to get away from this place outweighs his urge to gloat.

After a few minutes of cautious page-turning and wrinkling his nose at the splashing outside of Derek cleaning away blood with their water supply, he finally comes to the purple flower illustration. He runs his finger over the fading passage Kate had read just as Derek returns wearing what must be a pair of jeans salvaged from one of the bodies outside.

He turns the book to Derek once he’s slipped on his shoes and unfolded his leather jacket, saved from destruction like the rest of his clothes by its stint as a pillow.

“I think this is it.”

Derek pulls his jacket on over his bare torso and crouches down to peer at the words, producing the matchbox from one of the pockets of his newly-acquired jeans. When he starts to read, the words are stilted from his mouth compared to the way Kate had said them and Stiles just hopes confidence isn’t a key component of the spell. If the way Kate’s shrieking intensifies like she’s hoping to distract him is any indication, they must be doing something right. She even tries lashing out with her feet at one point despite clearly being out of range. Derek continues unfazed.

When the time comes to light the mistletoe, Stiles is all too conscious of the damp fur on his palms, his nervous gulps. His mind is zipping between all the ways this could go wrong so fast he’s almost dizzy with it, holding his breath as the smoke swells around him.

The pain isn’t there the second time. Instead, the fur recedes in a sensation that’s more like a cold shiver and his muzzle flattens like his face has suddenly been compressed. He keeps his eyes on his hands as the spell works its magic, his claws shrinking until they’re round and blunt, and even though he’s watching the fur disappear, he can’t pinpoint exactly where it goes.

The first thing he does when the smoke dissipates is clap his hands to his cheeks to feel for whiskers, but he hisses in pain as he slaps at a bruise.

“Told you you’d have a shiner.”

Stiles remembers their unvoiced uncertainty at the time that he’d ever get changed back and his reply is soft. “You did.”

His hands slide round to feel the natural placement of his human ears on the sides of his head and he crosses his eyes to check for the blur of his human nose. The ticks in his mental checklist of normalcy don’t stop him asking Derek if it worked. Knowing his luck, he still has orange eyebrows or something.

“You’re back to normal,” Derek confirms, then, because he likes to be an asshole, he adds, “Well, as normal as you can be.”

Stiles punches him on the arm and Derek – Derek _laughs_. His smile is big and bright, and it makes his eyes shine, the corners crinkling. Stiles is sure it’s just the cheerlessness of the past few days that has it sounding like a musical thing, like sunlight and fresh air, and possibly the best thing he’s ever heard. It’s a lifted weight and Stiles doesn’t think there’s anyone who deserves the feeling more.

Derek climbs to his feet, turning his head to take in the Argents chained to the wall, and his smile doesn’t fade. Stiles can’t deny it’s a beautiful picture.

He dusts off his knees as he also stands, and when he turns to face them, he can’t resist getting the last laugh. “You know, the universe really does work in mysterious ways,” he begins, not bothering to hide his glee at getting a chance to throw Kate’s words back at her. “If I hadn’t have picked this up–” He pulls what’s left of the mistletoe twig from his pocket and revels in the shade of puce Kate’s face floods as he tosses it in her lap. “–we wouldn't be about to introduce you to the entire Beacon County Sheriff’s Department.”

“ _You’re not going to get away with this!_ ” she shrieks, fury reaching such a height flecks of spittle fly from her lips.

Stiles smiles, slow and wide. “Who’s going to believe you?”

He turns to Derek leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, and the expression on the man's face – proud and buoyant and fond – has whatever threats or ominous promises Kate is spewing fading like a snuffed candle. He wants to throw his arms around him, say the words _It's over_ and have Derek know he doesn't just mean the last two days, but the fear that it would be unwelcome turns his hands heavy as lead and they won't respond, no matter how much he wants to lift them. It's odd that after what they've just endured and survived, this kind of fear can still remain, but he knows now is not the time to examine the root too closely.

Instead, he returns Derek's smile and gestures for him to lead the way. “Come on, let's put this place in the rearview,” he says, following Derek out into the sunlight.

 

 

They find his Jeep concealed in leafy branches a short distance in the direction the hunters would always come from with his key still in the ignition and the candy bar he’d blindly purchased – a Baby Ruth – in the front seat. Stiles splits it between them, proclaiming it as the meal of kings in his delight at the chocolate melting on his tongue. Derek snorts but doesn’t argue so Stiles takes it as agreement.

Once they’ve eaten, he examines his bruise in the rearview mirror, a still-purple blotch spreading across the height of his cheekbone. He refrains from giving it a poke, having learnt his lesson when he accidentally slapped it after his transformation.

They decide on their story as Stiles drives what ends up being a forty-minute journey back to town. Telling the truth of why he was at the Hale house is the smartest option (that he was warning Derek of an attack, not the werewolf hunters part) but after that things get a bit more tricky. The fact that three men look to have been mauled by an animal isn’t easily explainable, until Derek suggests they say the Argents had a wolf in their possession and they’d been raving about planning to turn the two of them into wolves too. The simplest solution is to say they were chained up when the men were killed outside so they don’t really know what happened, just that when the Argents came to unlock them for an unknown motive, Derek overpowered them and managed to turn the tables. When they finally ventured outside, the wolf was gone and they were left with the carnage.

“Anything else, you say you don’t remember. They knocked us out so it’s a bit of a blur and the beating they gave you made things fuzzy.”

It goes without saying Stiles shouldn’t mention that Derek also suffered a beating, with his now unmarked skin.

When they finally get back to Beacon Hills, Stiles spots a few turning heads as he drives, evidence that news of the disappearance had spread across town. Sure enough, when they reach the Sheriff’s station, it must have already been called in because his dad is waiting outside. He’s leaning heavily against the wide open door and Stiles can tell even from this distance that his face has aged a few years in the few days since he saw him last.

It’s only seeing his dad standing there sagging in the doorway that the magnitude of everything hits him. Stuck in that crumbling cabin, it was like the outside world had ceased to exist, a separate dimension where time elsewhere was standing still. He realises now his dad had been living a nightmare of his own.

He doesn’t pull into a space in the lot, just flings open the door before the Jeep has even stopped moving. He grapples with his seatbelt, eyes blurry, and when he manages to stumble to solid ground, his dad is there to welcome him into his embrace. He squeezes Stiles tight, and Stiles needs to feel it, needs to feel his dad solid in front of him, but the pressure on his bruised ribs yields an involuntary yelp and his dad pulls back despite Stiles’ attempts to keep him close.

Stiles isn’t the only one crying. Through the blur, he spots Derek standing by the hood of the Jeep, the three of them surrounded by a half-ring of deputies. Stiles beckons him forward but Derek hesitates to move as Stiles’ dad turns to him. Though his dad must be brimming with questions and it would make more sense to start at the beginning, there’s something he needs to say first, something his dad needs to understand the full weight of.

“I wouldn’t have made it out if it weren’t for Derek.”

Derek’s brow is furrowed and when he speaks, he's so solemn Stiles almost has to hide a smile despite his tears. “I would be dead if it weren’t for your son.”

His dad’s hand clenches and unclenches on his shoulder a few times, like he’s trying to let go to approach Derek to thank him in some way but he can’t bring himself to move away from Stiles.

After that, Stiles’ day is a whirlwind of questions and more questions. His dad hears their story first where he does a lot of pacing and laying his hand over the gun at his hip, and he and Derek are eventually separated to give statements. Deputies travel to the location of the Argents in the meanwhile with the manacle key Stiles handed over, and when they’re brought in, he and Derek stay in his dad’s office with the blinds closed.

Stiles never wants to see them again. He wants his last ever image of them to be on that dusty cabin floor, disheveled and defeated. Being honest with himself, he can also admit that he’s scared to. Despite the bravado of the way they’d left them, it doesn’t change what they’d planned to do to them, what they came so close to achieving. He’s sure the number of times he’ll relive it in nightmares will be more than enough. He doesn’t say any of it out loud, but he’s sure Derek understands.

Later though, he does hear through the grapevine that, while trying to convince the deputies their men were killed by Derek, the word _werewolf_ slipped in what had to be a fit of desperation. He has it on good authority that they as good as signed their one-way tickets to Eichen House.

Once the Argents are safely in the holding cells and out of view, Stiles ventures out to pour himself a coffee, and when he turns to carry it back, it’s just in time to spot his dad pull Derek into his arms. Derek’s eyes widen, hands held out like he’s not sure what to do with them, and for a moment, Stiles sees the boy from six years ago.

At the Sheriff’s Station was the last time Stiles saw him, and it feels like the entire thing has come full circle, not only their interactions with each other, but also reaching justice for the fire that started it all. This time, he won’t let Derek leave town without a guarantee that they’ll see each other again.

Derek tentatively returns the hug and closes his eyes, head sagging onto Stiles’ dad’s shoulder like it’s something he’s needed for a very long time. Stiles regrets not giving him a hug of his own when he had the chance.

 

 

Two days pass and Stiles doesn’t leave the house. Being the centre of attention at the Sheriff’s station was bad enough, but stepping outside to be greeted by a crowd and even reporters eager to set their eyes on the Sheriff’s boy returned took things to a new level. He didn’t want to have that while walking down the street or to spot more craned necks while driving around in his distinctive Jeep.

Scott has barely left his side since he’d gotten home, wide-eyed and taking the occasional puff from his inhaler when relaying the events that had taken place in town during Stiles’ absence – no lives owed to Harris, thank _God_. The story he tells Scott is the same as the one in his statement and he wonders if he’ll ever tell him the truth of it.

The problem is, the story isn’t quite finished. He realises the first night he’s home that his body hasn’t returned to as normal a state as he’d thought. He’s just been to the bathroom and is returning to Scott in his room when he catches his dad having a murmured phone call downstairs in the kitchen. Straining his ears to catch the words brings even Scott’s mom’s voice on the other end of the phone into focus, both worrying about how Stiles is doing. It makes him jump and Scott calling out to him from his room has him hurrying away from the banister, heart pounding at what it might mean.

Lying awake the next morning, he can hear the sizzle of bacon if he concentrates and smells it long before it rouses Scott. He just wishes he was in contact with Derek to ask him what it means, if he needs to take any precautions on the next full moon. Has there ever been a case of this happening to anyone else? Is he a werefox now?

Stiles hasn’t seen Derek since they said goodbye out the front of the station, an awkward farewell where Stiles had so many things he wanted to say but not the right words to say them. He hadn’t wanted Derek to go, not ready to step back from the comfort having him around had brought him, but Derek had some recovering to do of his own and Stiles didn’t want to be a burden.

He hasn’t been able to stop thinking about him though, wondering where he might be and if he’s had any company in the past couple of days. When night falls and he turns out the light, he hasn’t been able to stop his thoughts turning to the memory of seeing Derek naked. It hadn't mattered at the time: Derek was alive, their captors defeated. However, it hadn’t stopped him noticing he’d be right at home on the front page spread of Men’s Health. Despite his hope to see him again, he wonders if he’ll be able to look him in the eye or if the new heat in his cheeks will give him away.

He hasn’t been able to test the boundaries of his new abilities to their full extent with Scott there, so when Melissa comes to take him home a day later, all but hooking her arm around his neck and telling him to give Stiles some space, he can’t help but feel a bit relieved. With Scott gone and his dad making a trip to the station for an hour or two – the first time since Stiles came home – with the promise to be back in time for lunch, he can practice heightening his senses and see if he can even conjure his claws.

He’s barely drawn in an experimental breath and caught a whiff of apples simmering in a pot next door, when the hum of a very distinct engine rumbles down the street and draws to a stop in front of the house. Stiles races to the door, jerking it open as Derek is climbing out of his Camaro.

Something that’s been trembling inside him since parting from Derek settles at laying eyes on him and as Derek approaches the door, he doesn’t hesitate to pull him into his arms. For a moment, it feels almost as significant as the hug Stiles had shared with his dad, and he has to clear his throat of a lump when they pull apart.

“What are you doing here?” he croaks.

Derek lifts a hand to rub at the back of his neck. “I ran into your dad at the station,” he replies, almost shyly. “I got the feeling he would have introduced me to his gun if I didn’t come see you.”

“Oh.” Stiles swallows hard on a twisting lump of disappointment. “You didn’t have to. I’ll tell him to-”

“No, I wanted to. I just wasn’t sure I’d be welcome.”

Stiles frowns. “Of course you are. Come in.” He steps aside and watches Derek’s nostrils flare as he steps over the threshold. Stiles takes a few focused breaths of his own, scenting how the additions of leather and ocean mingle with the notes of home.

He leads Derek up to his room and dives right into it as soon as he shuts the door behind them. “There are probably some things we need to talk about, like the fact that we might not have returned me to as human as we’d thought,” he begins and Derek tenses, going on alert. “It’s nothing bad!” he’s quick to assure him. “I can just still hear things, like I knew it was you coming down the street. And if I focus right now, I can smell the air freshener from your car, and Mrs. Dennis baking an apple pie next door that she’s probably going to bring by later as an excuse to snoop for gossip.”

Derek answers with an amused huff. “You’ve also sprouted whiskers.”

Stiles reaches up to feel at his cheeks and pulls at a single whisker to inspect it from the corner of his eye. “Huh. That’s not so helpful.” When he stops focusing on his sense of smell, the whisker recedes and disappears. “But what does it mean? I’m not going to go Buffy-vamp on the full moon, am I?”

Derek looks like he’s regretting ever making that comparison. “I doubt it. I’ll be here on the next full moon just in case, but I don’t think we have anything to worry about.”

“You’ll be here?”

Derek looks suddenly interested in Stiles’ DVD collection. “Yeah.”

“Cool,” Stiles answers, then immediately wants to slap himself. “So, uh, how have you been?” he asks.

Derek’s smile is tight and his answering “Fine,” sounds just as convincing as the way Stiles has been saying it. He waits and Derek finally elaborates. “I’m still looking over my shoulder. I’m wondering if that will ever really go away.”

“They’re never getting out.”

“I know.” Derek shoves his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunching.

“I still can’t stop thinking about why it didn’t work for them.”

Derek turns away and starts inspecting Stiles’ room, running his hands over the back of his desk chair and the spines of books on his shelf.

“When you were a wolf,” Stiles clarifies. “I really thought that was the end, but I guess luck was on our side.”

Derek still doesn’t look at him. “It wasn’t luck,” he corrects and Stiles waits as he lingers at a family photo taken when Stiles was seven, hand hovering like he was about to touch but thought better of it. His mouth opens as he draws in a long breath, shoulders straightening as he steels himself for whatever he’s been building up to say. “You’re pack.”

Stiles’ heart leaps in his chest and he sits on the edge of his bed, feeling dizzy as his mind runs through everything that might mean. “And the spell required a packless Alpha,” he realises, body flushing hot. His lips feel numb. “But… I’m not a werewolf.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Derek sits beside him on the bed. “You protected me and defended me and you didn’t once try to save your own skin, even though we were virtual strangers.”

“Anyone would have–” he tries, gesturing weakly with his hand.

“No, they wouldn’t. I know that better than anyone.”

“But how did it happen?”

“I think it started when you offered me food and water.”

“When I offered you food and water?” Stiles repeats, blankly.

“You offered it to me before taking any yourself. The wolf saw it as a sign of deference, like you were accepting me as your Alpha.”

“I don’t need no man,” Stiles wants to slap himself as soon as the words are out of his mouth. But Derek merely raises his eyes to the ceiling in a way that Stiles thinks might be fond despite looking like he’s asking why he’s been saddled with such a loser.

Stiles licks his lips. “So, when you said you’d be here…”

Derek shrugs. “I can’t leave my only pack member behind.” He pauses. “Though I guess you’ll be going off to college soon. I’m not going to follow you wherever you go, so don’t worry. I know you didn’t ask for this–”

“I’ve been accepted at Columbia University.”

Derek’s head snaps to face him, mouth open enough to get a peek at his front teeth.

“As long as I don’t screw up in my finals, I’m going to New York. I want you to be there.”

Derek swallows. “Yeah?”

Stiles gives an emphatic nod. “Yeah.”

Derek ducks his head and Stiles watches in wonder as his ears go pink. He wants to reach out and touch, but curls his hands over his knees instead.

“You know, you never did finish what you were going to tell me.”

If anything, Derek’s blush gets darker. At least he knows what Stiles is talking about. “I always?”

Stiles nods. “Something about Oreos and pencil shavings.”

“Not the Oreos. You’d just been eating them at the time.” He corrects, then shrugs like he’s trying to say it’s not a big deal. “But the pencil shavings…” He takes a slow sniff. “Since then, I’ve always found it comforting. I can still smell it on you now. But it’s not actual pencil shavings, it’s just... “

Stiles thinks of leather and that hint of something that he doesn’t think has anything to do with cologne. He takes a breath of his own. It’s softer now, but no less present, like he can smell that Derek is at ease.

“Yeah,” he breathes, a quiet confirmation that he knows exactly what Derek means.

Derek turns to look at him and something settles into place between them, something it feels like they’ve been circling ever since Stiles woke cradled in Derek’s lap. It’s so easy then, for Derek to cup his cheek and lean in close, their breaths mingling where their scents grow stronger. Stiles’ eyes flutter shut as he breathes them in and the touch of Derek’s lips against his own steals the breath from his lungs.

He lets Derek press him back into the bed, his forearm cradling Stiles’ head on his pillow. He’s half-draped over Stiles, other hand cupping his jaw like he's something fragile. Stiles’ whole body is buzzing, similar to when he'd been hit by the spell and had fur sprouting–

Derek pulls back and his eyes crinkle with laughter. Stiles looks down and he sees the fur creeping up his forearms.

“Oh.”

“We’re going to have to work on your control,” Derek says, dragging the back of one finger up the receding fuzz.

Stiles shivers at the touch and the fur lengthens again.

“Shut up,” he huffs as Derek’s eyes sparkle with barely restrained mirth. He nervously licks his lips. “That wasn’t just some pack initiation thing, right?”

“Didn’t you know? Alphas do that with all of their pack members.”

Stiles swats him on the chest and Derek grins – Stiles adores this more carefree Derek – before leaning down to kiss him again.

It’s soft and almost lazy, like the slow drizzle of honey, until Stiles asks against Derek’s mouth, “Can I see your Buffy-vamp-face now?”

The question is met with a snort and eyeroll as Derek flops back against the other pillow.

Stiles rolls over and props himself up on his elbows to take him in, at once out of place and right at home. He wants to kiss him again, wants to put his face where his neck meets his shoulder and just breathe, wants to wrap him in blankets and cuddle him tight. There’s no time to do any of those things, at least not yet.

He can hear his dad’s cruiser approaching from down the street but Derek doesn’t move. They both stay still and silent – content – as his dad enters the house and starts puttering around in the kitchen. Usually, he’d call up the stairs but he must know exactly who the car out front belongs to.

Stiles curls a hand around Derek’s bicep and squeezes. “Do you want lunch?”

“I could eat.”

Derek follows Stiles down the stairs to the kitchen and his dad smiles as soon as he sees him, pulling out a chair and asking how he takes his coffee.

Stiles hangs back and leans against the counter. Derek’s calculations were incorrect when he called Stiles his only pack member. As his dad cracks enough eggs for the three of them and serves up Derek’s coffee with a hand squeezing his shoulder, it looks like Derek is beginning to understand that too.

In that moment, he can’t help thinking back on everything that could have gone wrong, all the things that had to happen for them all to be here, right now.

If Stiles had just used the gas station on the way home instead of the one across town, if the hunters hadn’t left Deaton’s cabinet open, if Scott hadn’t landed the Saturday morning shift...

The universe really does work in mysterious ways.

**Author's Note:**

> Stiles and Derek go on a road trip to New York a month before college begins. During his first semester he meets Erica, Isaac and Boyd, and though only Erica asks for the bite for her epilepsy, their pack still grows by three.
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> Stiles never does find out he was already something supernatural like Baseball Cap had suspected.
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> Stiles still maintains the hunter would have been a toad.
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> You can find me on tumblr [here](http://kaistrex.tumblr.com) or at my fic rec blog [UnderappreciatedSterek](http://underappreciatedsterek.tumblr.com)!


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